


Until You Beg For Mercy

by intotheruins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Dom Irene Adler, Dom/sub, F/M, Face Slapping, First Time, Implied Autistic Sherlock, It's actually a bit fluffy in places, Sub Sherlock Holmes, crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 01:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: Post A Scandal In Belgravia. Sherlock let his heart rule his head when he saved Irene, and now he's curious about where else it might lead him.





	Until You Beg For Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Adlock damn near as much as I adore Johnlock, but there seems to be a tragic lack of the former. So I wrote one :D.

The door closes, and for the first time in two days Sherlock stops to breathe.

There are several long moments where that's all he appears to do. Just leans his forehead against the door and breathes—long and steady as he pulls in air, but shaky on the exhale, betraying his frantic thoughts.

He let his heart rule his head. Sentiment has released its creeping fingers in the final proof that he does, indeed, possess a heart, and all the emotional drivel that comes with it. In a desperate attempt to remain aloof, to categorize and, more importantly, _compartmentalize,_ he's traced the loss of purely logical thinking back to its beginnings—or, more accurately, back to its resurrection (oh, god, now he sounds like one of John's blog posts). His emotions always got the better of him as a child, he remembers that clearly. It took years for him to shove them back, to let logic take the lead even if it never succeeded in erasing the pesky emotions entirely. That's fine—he isn't a robot. He doesn't want to feel nothing, he just wants to _think._

The loss began with John. Sherlock hasn't cared for anyone the way he cares for John since he was a child, since he still worshiped Mycroft as a god and adored him accordingly. John makes him want to try harder, which has somehow translated to _feel more._

So when The Woman came along, and dared to be interesting, his emotional defenses were weakened.

He wants to blame John, but in the end he's still the one who allowed it to happen. He let John wake him up, and he let Irene Adler intrigue him.

God, Mycroft is right. He let Irene make him feel special. His scathing reveal of her mobile password, the way he spat the words _sentiment_ and _heart,_ it was as much at himself as it was at her. It was as much _please let me be right,_ a desperate need to not be alone in his regrettable desire.

He shuts his eyes, blocking out the door—stained oak, wood re-stained at least three times, initials D.R. carved into the lower left corner with a penknife, depth and angle suggest someone strong and left-handed.

His true diagnosis, the one he never speaks of and the one Mycroft allowed him to bury, hovers at the back of his mind. The one that supposedly explains his emotional sensitivity, but the very thought makes him scowl.

One crisis at a time.

Opening his eyes and turning sharply on his heel, Sherlock meets the gaze of the woman standing behind him as though he didn't just display a moment of vulnerability. She went straight to the shower after they checked in to the little inn just outside Sussex—bringing her back to England is too obvious, which is precisely why he did it. Even Mycroft won't be looking for her here. Her hair's down now, still damp and clumped together in thick strands. All of her makeup has been washed away, but her eyes are no less huge, no less dark without it. She's wearing a fluffy white bathrobe that clearly came complimentary with the room, and Sherlock experiences a ridiculous need to giggle at the sight. Fluffy just seems so harmless, and he knows those calculating, cool eyes are hiding a mind that is anything but harmless. 

He sweeps his eyes over her instead. He still can't read her like he would read anyone else, and he finds it infuriatingly fascinating, but he can see the relief etched into the lines around her eyes and the simmering arousal in her dilated pupils.

Aroused. He's done something to arouse her. What? He's done nothing since entering this room except lean against the door... exposing his back, his neck, making himself open, _oh._

She liked seeing him vulnerable.

'I thought you were gay,' he says. Sharp, wielding the words like a spear.

It makes her smile. 'I am,' she says easily. 'Though that's never stopped me from using my charms on men. But I find you... fascinating.'

She purrs the word 'fascinating,' smirks around it, lets a visible little shiver roll through her body. Sherlock flushes in response and curses himself for it.

'And what are you, Mr. Holmes?' she asks.

Mr. Holmes. She's still holding him at arm's length, even after he saved her. What would it take to make her say his first name? To purr it the way she purred 'fascinating'?

'Gay,' he says finally. 'But...'

He tips his head towards her in acknowledgment, and says nothing more.

'Mm.' Irene plays absently with the collar of the bathrobe. It's become less ridiculous in the last few seconds, possibly because it's now falling off a shoulder and is dangerously close to revealing one of her breasts. He's never been particularly interested in breasts, but he remembers hers are nicely shaped, and they're a part of her, and that makes every little bit she chooses to reveal to him exciting.

This is intolerable. How do ordinary people handle this on a regular basis?

Irene takes a step forward. Another. Sherlock takes a step away, and his back presses into the door.

'Do you have a single submissive bone in your body, Mr. Holmes?'

This is why she's fascinating. He has nine inches on her, yet she's still managing to look _down_ at him. It makes no logical sense whatsoever and while he would normally find it aggravating, there's something different about where this is taking his mind. He wants to tear this apart, find all the individual parts and figure out why they react this way when they come together, to...

'Oh,' he breathes, his eyes widening slightly.

He doesn't want to tear it apart. He wants  _her_ to tear  _him_ apart.

Interesting.

'I don't know,' he answers honestly; is that what this feeling is? This desire to be destroyed and pieced back together?

She reaches up and runs a finger over his left cheekbone. It takes conscious thought for him to lean into it rather than flinch away—the reaction is so ingrained in him that it's become damn near instinctual. He so often can't stand to be touched, even if some oh-so-human part of him craves it. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, they're exceptions, and now it seems Irene has fit herself into that special list in his mind... but her touch holds _more._ The threat of danger, of something new he's never wanted to explore.

He shudders. He lets her see it.

Something dark shifts in her already dark eyes; her gaze narrows and her lips quirk into a crooked smile, and suddenly she's something wild, an autumn court faery come to seduce him out of his mind and into his body. He almost snorts at this ridiculous flight of fancy (and wonders, briefly, how John would react if he found out that Sherlock scoffs at his romantic writing because Sherlock himself is, at heart, a romantic).

“Would you like to find out?” Her voice has dropped a register, taken on a low, husky tone that makes him shudder all over again. Her thumb drags slowly over his bottom lip as he contemplates the offer, lets is roll through his mind without limit and studies the way it seems to warm him from the inside.

“Yes,” he says finally, softly but with conviction.

Irene smiles.

Sherlock expects action then, of some kind, but Irene stays where she is. Only her thumb keeps moving, sweeping slowly back and forth, back and forth, until Sherlock's mind catches on the motion. A strange kind of war starts up inside him, where one side wants to deduce what might be coming and the other wants to give in to sensation.

'That's it,' Irene murmurs.

What's it? What's he done? He tries to focus and finds he's staring at her, watching her impossible-to-read eyes. His lips have parted so that occasionally the tip of her thumb brushes against his teeth. The door seems all the more solid against his back, and it takes him a moment to realise this is because it's now supporting most of his weight.

'I—' he starts, but Irene sets her index finger over both his lips and he stops.

Irene smiles approvingly. 'Good boy.'

_Oh._ Sherlock's eyes widen as warmth pools low in his belly. Really, he should have deduced that about himself considering how much he loves it when John praises him—but John's never praised him in a sexual context before, he didn't have all the data, so perhaps the oversight is forgivable. 

Irene steps back, taking her touch with her. Sherlock immediately tries to follow. She takes another step, leading Sherlock slowly away from the support of the door and further into the room, until they're standing at the foot of the bed and Sherlock's mind is caught up in the desire to be touched again.

'Strip,' Irene orders. Her voice is soft, teasing at the boundary of gentle. Considering all the bits and pieces he collected of how she's dominated others, this comes as a surprise. Then again, none of what he's heard appeals to him, and she's clever enough to have realised that.

Without taking his eyes from her, Sherlock strips off his jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Is she going to undress? There's a little spark, something bordering on sharp that pings around in his chest at the thought. He'd like to see her. Maybe she'll let him earn it.

Stripping is easy. Sherlock has no shame about his body, knows he's fit (if a bit too skinny) and generally seen as attractive in an unusual sort of way. Yet he starts to shake as he finishes removing his pants, dropping them on the floor to rest on top of his trousers. The tremor is light, but Irene still sees it and reaches out to catch both his hands in hers.

'Good,' she says again, and makes no mention of the trembling.

She pushes and tugs at him until he's sitting on the end of the bed. His hands are placed on his knees firmly enough that he understands it as a silent order, and doesn't move them when she steps back. A question claws at his throat when she nods and walks back into the bathroom, but he swallows it down and turns his attention to himself as a distraction.

He's not fully hard yet, but he's definitely thickened. Despite what everyone seems to think, Sherlock isn't sexless. He indulges in masturbation quite frequently, especially after the really exciting cases. It's just difficult to find partners when he usually can't stand people for more than ten minutes, and can't bear to be touched no matter how much his skin craves it. So the liquid heat of arousal pooling in his pelvis, of his cock growing harder, isn't at all unfamiliar to him. The lack of urgency, however, is—and it's nice. Soothing.

Irene comes back into the room, still wearing the robe, holding a...

Sherlock blinks. It takes everything in him not to ask where in the hell she got a hold of another riding crop while they were on the run. The fact that he can't deduce it for himself is slowly slipping from the irritating into the purely delightful.

'I'm full of surprises,' Irene says in response to his wide eyes, and he's inclined to agree. 'Now... on your knees, I think.'

Obediently, Sherlock slides off the bed and to his knees, heart thumping with just a bit more insistence as she approaches.

Irene sets her hand on his shoulder and pushes until he'd settled in against himself, a much more relaxed position than he expected. Slowly, Sherlock draws in a breath through his nose and lets it out from his mouth. It does nothing to soothe his rising heart rate, but it lets him relax muscles that were beginning to tense—whether in anticipation or fear, he hasn't decided yet. Maybe a bit of both.

He eyes the crop. It's a little longer than her last one, the end a wide strip of folded-over leather. The memory of sharp stings skitters across his skin—he bites the inside of his lower lip, chews a little as he wonders if it will feel differently in this context.

Irene sees him looking. Her own gaze falls to the crop for a moment before she lifts it to rest the end against his lips. He must make a pretty picture because her pupils dilate further and her cheeks flush, her lips curling into a crooked smile. 

She makes a pretty picture herself, pretty and dangerous, and suddenly Sherlock is desperate to impress her. Without allowing himself to think, he parts his lips and takes the end of the crop into his mouth. It tastes strange against his tongue, almost bitter, but it's more than worth when she sucks in a sharp breath.

'I can think of some other uses for that mouth,' Irene murmurs. 'Later.'

She draws the crop away. Sherlock gives it a hard, parting suck just to hear her chuckle, to feel the sound spread tiny, warm little fingers under his skin.

'Cross your arms over your chest,' Irene says as she steps around behind him. 'And bow your head.'

Sherlock does so, noting the way it exposes his back and rounds his shoulders, but at the same time gives him a small, comforting sense of protection along his more vulnerable front. He rocks forward without thinking and just as quickly freezes—did she see, does she  _know?_

No, she can't know. She'd think him fragile, like everyone from his youth. Like Mycroft.

She doesn't warn him. The first blow lands between his shoulder blades, just to the left of his spine. He gasps, but it's more surprise than pain. The sensation can't even truly be described as pain, just a light sting and a sudden warmth that makes him shudder. Blows two and three come in quick succession, then nothing—Sherlock's fingers dig into his own biceps as he waits, wonders if he can deduce the location of the next strike.

It comes to his hip (he was wrong), then another to the bottom of his foot, this one just a tap. Meant to startle him, not hurt him, and he does jump. Then a series of them over his shoulders and upper back, some sharp enough to be called pain, but most just that bright, warm smack, with no discernible pattern... and soon he stops trying to find one. There are more important things: the growing heat under his skin, the throb of his heart trying to crawl out of his throat, the ache of his erection, the _white noise_ in his head. His mind is _quiet_ in a way that only cocaine has ever provided, and the relief of it has him dangerously close to tears.

The blows stop abruptly. Sherlock realises he's panting, fingers digging so hard into his skin he knows there will be bruises there later, evidence.

Slowly, he lifts his head to find Irene standing in front of him. The crop is gone, and he couldn't care less where it is.

Irene smiles at him, and holds out both of her hands, palm up. 'Come here, my good boy.'

Sherlock's hands are shaking as he places them in hers. She uses all the hidden strength in her small frame to pull him to his feet. He stumbles forward, wraps his arms around her shoulders and contorts his considerably taller frame so that he can fit his face into the safety of her throat.

'Shh.' Irene cards her fingers through his hair, strokes down the back of his neck and then squeezes the muscle there—Sherlock's knees tremble and threaten to give. 'Sh, I've got you. Come here.'

She gets her hand back in his hair and tugs until he lifts his head, but she doesn't let him straighten. No, she has a better idea; she kisses him, takes his bottom lip between hers and sucks lightly, flicks it with her tongue but never tries to delve deeper. Sherlock whines. His hands scrabble at her robe, tugging mindlessly at fuzzy fabric until she laughs and shoves him away hard enough to send him tumbling back onto the bed in a graceless sprawl.

'Impatient,' Irene scolds. 'I should punish you for that.'

The words make his toes curl and his breath come faster. He scrambles up the bed until he's roughly in the center, unsure if he's trying to escape or just make it easier for her. She watches him, an amused little smile curled up like a satisfied cat in the corner of her mouth.

'Do you want me to punish you?' Irene asks.

She kneels at the end of the bed and begins to crawl upward. Sherlock watches her, and can't bring himself to shake or nod his head. He isn't sure.

'Put your arms over your head,' Irene orders, and when he has she straddles his chest. She isn't wearing anything under the robe, so when she settles against him Sherlock can feel how wet she is. It sends a thick curl of heat through him, knowing that he's aroused her.

Just like before, there's no warning. She just slaps him, hard enough to crack and send his head snapping to the right. Heat explodes across his cheek and he cries out, pain and surprise and a punch of arousal all jumbled inside the mangled sound. He straightens only to receive another slap to his right cheek, just as hard. Every time he turns back to face her she gives him another, until he's panting and whimpering, hands clenched into fists and hips bucking helplessly.

She's pulling her hand back to deliver another when he gasps, 'Wait!'

Instantly, she drops her hand.

The last bit of his mind that was holding on, still absorbing outside details in an automatic sort of way, lets go. He goes boneless under her, and he watches her smile soften into something understanding.

She doesn't slap him again. Instead, she unties the belt and pulls off her robe, dropping it over the side of the bed. She leans over him to take his wrists in her hands, and Sherlock experiences the unexpected urge to take one of her nipples in his mouth. If she gives him permission he will, but instead she sits back and places both his hands on her breasts. He's only ever touched the harder planes of a man's chest, but because it's her he finds it no less desirable. She holds him there a moment, lets him explore the softness and the hard peaks of her nipples before she lowers his hands to the bed, pinning them firmly as she did his hands to his knees earlier. When she slides off of him to rest on her knees by his right hip, he leaves his hands where they are.

'I want you to hold as still as you can,' Irene orders. 'But feel free to make as much noise as you like.'

It seems like a simple enough order, until Irene's hand is curled soft and warm around his aching cock. The urge to buck his hips is nearly unbearable; he bites his lip and groans, grateful for the freedom to be vocal. His thighs quiver as she gets a firm grip and strokes slowly upwards. His foreskin has fully retracted, but she stops just short of the exposed glans and strokes back down instead. A whine catches in his throat, claws its way to freedom when she uses her other hand to cup his balls. His hips twitch. He curls his hands into the blanket until his fingers ache, thinks he has himself under control until she lightly rubs his frenulum with her thumb.

'Please!' the word is out before he can catch it. He freezes, but Irene isn't stopping—instead, she's picking up the pace, keeping his balls tucked in her palm while she slips a finger behind them to press into his perineum.

'One,' she says, two parts smug and one part fond, and Sherlock remembers her stunned gaze as he deduced the numbers on her phone, _I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice._

He scoffed at the time, because he didn't understand. He didn't know how good it would feel.

He lifts his head just enough to find her gaze, hisses, ' _Please,'_ with every ounce of desperation and need he can cram into only one word, and then he's screaming as she twists her hand over the head of his cock.

Irene works him through his orgasm, murmuring words of praise that he catches between his cries. He's oversensitive and twitching away, begging quietly under his breath for her to stop, before she finally lets him go. There's semen on his chest and stomach, warm and sticky, and he's going to find that irritating in a minute. In just a few minutes...

He blinks his eyes open what feels like a handful of seconds later, but it must have been longer. He's clean now, and under the covers. Irene is stretched out behind him, breasts pressed to his back and an arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Her other hand is stroking his hair. He butts his head into her touch without thinking, still isn't thinking, god, it's glorious. Not as a permanent state of mind, of course, but the vacation of silence is wonderful.

'You didn't...' Sherlock murmurs suddenly, sliding one hand back to cup her hip, though he can't bring himself to move more than that. He's too comfortable, too enamored of the sensation of being taken care of.

'I did,' Irene assures him. 'Right after you, in fact. You were a little out of it at the time.'

Sherlock chuckles, and leaves his hand where it is. Irene kisses his shoulder.

'You can take care of me later, when you've rested,' she says. And then, deliberately, 'Sherlock.'

She says it in the same purring tone he imagined earlier, and he doesn't bother trying to hide his grin. She leans over him to kiss the corner of it and squeezes the arm she has around his waist.

'Go to sleep,' she orders, and he lets himself slip back into the dark.

It's easy, when he feels this safe.

~

END

 


End file.
